The Art of Letting Go
by PeanutNinja
Summary: Love: A profoundly tender, or passionate affection for another person.  Alice asks Jasper whether their relationship is about love or dependance.


_"Darkling I listen; and, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call'd him soft names in many amused rhyme"_ Ode to a Nightingale - John Keats.

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><p>The bar is smoky, the smoke dances in front of me like a film that's supposed to cover everything, hide the people who want to stay hidden. I wonder if it hides me. The glass in my hands is cold, containing that off-amber liquid some crave so much. I bring the drink to my lips and swallow, I feel the echo of a burn nothing more, nothing less. It settles in my stomach and somehow, from the distance from the bar, the barman sees my glass is empty and gives me a re-fill. No words are spoken, no cash is exchanged: I imagine I'll throw a fistful down on the table at the end of the night and stumble blearily back to my apartment.<p>

I glance up at her, through the haze I see her sitting morosely at the bar, she's already drunk. Her pale skin glows, her normally shiny hair seems dejected. For once I don't want to get involved in the mess of her life. She looks like an angel when really she's a demon. I look around at the other occupants of this hellhole, they mind their own business, take mechanical slow sips and talk without moving their lips. I sigh into my drink, wondering if it's worth ordering a bottle before downing the rest of the contents with an uneasy shudder.

Like a wound up soldier he pours me another drink "Leave the bottle" I murmur, perhaps I'll pay him double. I pour another drink but this time stare at it. Sometime during my stupor she's strode over and sat down in front of me, I can feel her eyes on me, but I don't look up just yet. I feel her hand move to mine, tracing patterns on it, and I know I haven't had nearly enough to speak. She continues her patterns, as I down drinks, and the chatter of those around us fades.

"Are we normal?" she asks, not looking at me. 'Normal', the word seems foreign, I don't think I like it.

"No" I say quietly, catching her hand with mine and holding it. It's like a dead weight, dragging me down deeper. I pour us both drinks. "Do you want to be normal?"

"I think I do" I put my glass down and look at her, she looks scared, sad and she's shaking. The chatter around us is gone, the other drunks stuck somewhere in their own stupors.

"Why?" I ask regaining the ability to drink, she follows my lead then shrugs.

"Normal's healthy" is her response as she re-fills our glasses.

"And this isn't?" she raises an eyebrow.

"You think it is?"

"No" I admit eventually. At some point in the night I glance at her face again, the ugly purple bruise is still there, it reminds me of the kitchen knife scars on my chest. I put my hand to her face, she doesn't flinch, and I touch the bruise, caress it. And it's ok, we're still safe, the bar is still hazy with smoke. I pour the remains of the bottle into our glasses and we nurse our last drinks, our eyes unfocused. I glance at her hand, scrawled on it is 'Love is freedom' I read it out. When I'm done she looks at me, her eyes for a minute focused and blazing.

"Is this freedom?" she asks, she downs the rest of her drink, gets up and leaves to go home.

I stay there, drinkless, as if waiting for some form of enlightenment. The bar slowly empties and I wonder if my stomach could handle one more drink.

As I lean in an alley, retching and vomiting, I realise I don't have an answer.

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><p>I am there before her next time, my usual spot, the bar isn't hazy yet. I sit at my usual table, and I wait to order this time. I watch as the bar fills up with a blur of people, they sit and talk mechanically and the bar fills up with smoke. I order whiskey. I am halfway through my drink when she arrives and sits herself down at the bar, she looks tired but slightly better.<p>

It takes her longer to come over to me, she sits herself down as the smoke conceals us. We are both drunk. "Will you be careful this time?" she asks.

"I don't know" is the response.

"Do you have an answer?" she doesn't need to clarify. I turn the glass around in my hands, it's a different off-amber liquid in a different, but identical, glass. I look at the people around us, the ones not hidden by smoke, for the first time I receive a moment of clarity. I see the strain on the women's painted faces, the forcefulness of the men's happy voices. The couple nearest us are a prime example, and she has a purple bruise on her arm. They're both drinking whiskey.

I turn back to her, my heart heavy, my eyes sad, and I see her looking back at me with the same eyes. "No" I say softly, a small sigh escaping my lips. We've reached a mutual point of understanding and I've never been so exhausted. The smoke in the bar clears slightly, this place doesn't look as pretty as I thought it did. I pour us another drink, we toast to nothing. Glass after glass, the night disappears. When the bottle's gone and the bartender is cleaning up she asks another question, I'm too far gone to let it bother me.

"So what do we do now?" she asks, I wonder for a few seconds, why I liked her neediness in the first place. I don't look up when I answer, lifting my head is almost too much effort.

"I don't know" I reply quietly and she gets up to leave.

I find my own way to an empty home and a cold bed. As I lie on top of the cool sheets, my pyjama's forgotten, my mind goes back to the bar. I still don't know.

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><p>I sit in the corner, our corner. I order whiskey, she doesn't show. I haven't heard from her in days, I know I would be surprised if I did. Life's been life: good, bad, then worse. I tell myself I don't need her and this is easy. Because I don't. The drinks keep coming, the bar gets hazier and I get drunk faster.<p>

I know… I know I am not in denial and I know I am. I no longer wake up with scars, she will no longer wake up bruised, I have space to think, to live, to breathe. I can do my work, I can meet my friends, I can read and watch what I want. I don't have to keep returning to this bar, this place which is looking worse by the minute. But I always do, it's just in case she shows, but I don't need her.

This time I pay the bartender the right amount. On my way home I almost get hit by a car, I scare my neighbours cat. When I open the door I see my apartment once again empty, her things are all gone. I wonder if she was ever here. I hadn't realised, when I met her, how attached I was to the colour white.

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><p>They're taking me out, it's supposed to be fun. We'll go dancing and for a meal perhaps, no gambling, after all some demons have to stay dead. They talk about my new promotion, I guess being the youngest History Professor has it's merits, and my sisters engagement, she flaunts her ring. I congratulate them and ignore it when it hurts. I haven't seen her in seven weeks.<p>

When we're dancing they leave me at the bar, it's a modern club and I feel out of place. I find myself missing the sour smell of booze and the dull brick walls. I get a drink of vodka, it burns in a bad way, but still I order another, and another.

At some point a pretty black haired girl walks over to me, she smiles, she has a pretty smile. We dance together, we flow well together, synchronised, mechanical. When the others aren't looking we slip outside, for fresh air and a cigarette. Somehow in the alley her mouth ends up on mine, it's strange, it's inviting. I would take her back to my apartment, or be crude and have her right there and then as I'm sure we're both drunk enough not to care. But I catch her eyes, sad brown eyes and I back away, light my cigarette and one for her and we regard each other like strangers, as if we hadn't been kissing moments ago.

I wait until she's ready to leave before I speak "You're sad, why?" I care for the answer, and then again I don't, indecision is a big thing for me right now.

"Can you think of a reason to be happy?" she asks, she wait's a few moments before walking back to the club, I realise I never got her name, a few minutes later I decide I don't really care. I go and get another drink, the promotion on my mind. Of course I'm happy… I should be happy, I have a reason. I don't feel happy though, just… here. The taste is getting to me and I'm at that stage where I can blame my unhappiness on the liquor. Next time I vow to order whiskey.

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><p>Life is busy, too stressful, work is fun. Yet I find myself at the bar again, two weeks later. I arrive early and sit in the corner, I wait until it fills up before I order my drink. Through the haze I see her sit at the bar and order her drink, I keep my eyes on the table in front of me, but my heart is too heavy to convince myself that this is a beginning.<p>

The people around us talk mechanically, kid that they're ok until they're too drunk to care who sees them sad. The bartender, as if on some robotic cue refills my drink each time, "Leave the bottle" I murmur. At some point she strides over to me, she is drunk and I am not. I pour us both a glass, she doesn't touch hers, she's waiting. As I down mine and pour another I feel her hand trace patterns on my palm, I don't look at her. The ambiance is neutral. For the first time I notice odd stares but I brush them off, the smoke is thick and it's just me, and her. When she thinks I'm drunk she speaks.

"I don't really know why I'm here."

"Who told you love was freedom? What does it mean?" she shrugs.

"No one told me, it's common sense. The moment someone feels caged, trapped, can they call that love?" she asks, this time I withdraw my hand and pour myself a drink.

"Do you want me?" she doesn't answer. "You moved out real quickly" I comment and pour another glass, I seem to have misplaced hers. She doesn't respond, instead she watches as I drink the bottle. At some point, earlier than usual she puts a hand on my arm, I look up my, vision is beginning to sway.

"I want you to be normal" she all but whispers, the other couples are lost in their conversations. This comment teases a smile from my lips.

"Darling, when have I been normal?" I ask, she doesn't answer. She sits for a few moments longer before getting up.

"Just try to be normal" she whispers, for once breaking the pattern of silence. I don't answer, I just watch her leave, my mind wonders if she was ever there.

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><p>It is three months ago, somehow we end up at the same bar. We order whiskey, the bartender leaves the bottle and she walks over when she's drunk. Her cheek is bruised, my chest is cut, but she smiles and waits for me to catch up. She'll always be the one waiting. When I'm as drunk as her she smiles, that slow smile I always see on her. Although she smiles, her eyes look sad "Do you ever think your not alive?" she asks, I frown.<p>

"I don't understand."

"Do you ever feel defeated, crushed and detached, like somehow it isn't worth it?" she's desperate for me to understand.

"Does it matter if I have?" I ask.

"I just don't want to see you hurt" she replies and I'm confused again.

"Who are we talking about?"

"Well… I don't really know him now."

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><p>I understand now, of course I do, the thought's just struck me, and now I know how to sum up my feelings. I pour another glass, as if this one is a celebration. I don't feel like celebrating though. I down it, and the burn is much stronger than it has been, it <em>hurts<em>. I pour myself more glasses, then, once it's empty I order another glass. I feel like being foolish, stupid, irrational, idiotic, I feel like drifting towards that nadir and crashing my car of the cliff so tomorrow, before I lecture, my mind will be exploding in pain. Perhaps I can get away with it, not many twenty five year old's are lecturers.

At some point during my rebellious third… or was it forth?… drink, a man enters the bar and walks towards the bartender. He points towards me, and I watch as a mop of bronze hair and emeralds comes closer and closer. He sits down. "You shouldn't be here" he says, his voice is stern and his face is worried.

"Why? I'm an adult" I reply.

"You have a class to teach tomorrow, or more like today" he says, drumming his fingers against the table.

"I've already planned my lessons" I mutter, and I have, they're in a book at home. The man rolls his eyes, I finish my drink. He doesn't let me order another one, I tell him I wasn't going to.

"Come on I'll take you home" he says, but I make no sign of moving, in fact neither does he, perhaps it's the doctor in him that knows I want to tell him something.

"Alice was here earlier" I say quietly, I meet his shocked eyes with my blue ones and my brow furrows. "What?" I ask, he looks at me uneasily.

"I think you've had to much Jasper" is all he says, he gets up and I throw a fistful of money on the table before letting him help me up.

The air is cold outside and the sky is still pitch black, his face is serious, he plans to speak to me. I'm unsure of what he wants to say. He finds a low wall a few streets away and lets me slump on it, "Jasper."

"What Edward?" I ask irritably, I want to go home and sleep now, Alice will be there.

"Alice died three months ago, in that car crash, remember you were there? That's where you got your scars from? You got your second PhD not long after that." he exclaims desperately, it occurs to me that he thinks I've gone off my rocker. I see her under a streetlamp on the other side of the road. Perhaps I have. I want to deny it though, tell him she's alive, after all I did see her, and the bartender had served her drinks, at least I thought he had. I'm about to tell him he's wrong when I remember our conversation earlier.

_"Just try to be normal"_ plays in my head over and over and over again. Her words make sense.

"I remember" I say quietly, and I do. I walked from that crash reasonably unscathed, she died on impact. There was a purple bruise on her cheek. He seems satisfied, he leads me home.

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><p>I don't fall asleep immediately, in fact I feel a little sick, although it's nothing to do with the liquor. I don't feel her next to me, and I know now I never will.<p>

_"Just try to be normal"_

I know in the morning I'll dismiss it as drunk talk and act normal until he forgets, I'll do as she says, or as I thought she said. Despite my inebriated state this still hurts, still claws at my insides. I want to feel her next to me one last time, it's not going to happen.

I remember when we first met, she never wanted me for my brain and it made me happy, happier than I'd been in a long, long time. I stare at the ceiling and think tonight must be a night for realisations. I haven't called home in months. I shut my eyes to my quiet room and envision our first meeting in my mind, if I think hard enough it's like I'm almost there.

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><p>The bar is smoky, it hides those who want to be hidden, I am stressed with exams. Maybe tonight I can be someone else. I order a drink, my drink, whiskey, I learn that with the right amount of cash, in fluid movements, that my glass is never empty for long. I watch her as she walks in, she doesn't fit into this place, but I guess neither do I. I watch as she orders a drink, but she's too far away to guess her order. She is beautiful. I keep my head down, I came here for seclusion, I don't have a chance with her.<p>

A while later she walks over to me and sits, uninvited, in the seat opposite. I look up at her, she is drunk. She grabs my hand and holds it. I wonder why she won't talk. Then my mind catches up and I see, she's waiting on me to get drunk. I order another drink and murmur "Leave the bottle" I pour her a glass as it's only fair. We both know it will be untouched. I down the drink and pour another, she isn't looking at me but her hand is still clasped in mine.

When she thinks I have caught up she speaks "I'm Alice"

"I'm Jasper"

"You've kept me waiting a long time" she smiles. She is happy.

"I'm sorry" I say mockingly, I inwardly cheer as she laughs. I turn her hand over to see her smooth, small palm, on the inside of her wrist there is 'Love is Freedom' tattooed in cursive.

"Is love freedom?" I ask as I pour us a drink, we both finish before she answers. I like to watch her think, her brow furrows slightly and her little, red lips pout. I want to reach over and kiss her. But I'm waiting for an answer.

"The moment someone feels caged, trapped, can they call that love?" I smile and reply.

"What about when you feel secure in a relationship?" I still don't quite get it.

"You can still leave though, anytime you want if you wanted to. It's when your dependant and the other isn't and your trapping that person, that you need to question whether it's love" Perhaps she was right or perhaps I was too drunk to make anything out of it. I don't respond. We give idle chatter for the rest of the night, it eventually devolves into silence when speaking becomes too much.

She stays at my apartment that night, hers is apparently too far away. It took me awhile to work out she wanted to spend time with me, I've never been good with girls, or people in general. My friends were happy I'd found someone, but I still had a bad feeling about it.

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><p>I'm lying on my bed. I am still drunk. And I want her next to me. I know she won't lie next to me. I think perhaps I'll do a psychology degree next, just to make sure I'm not losing the plot. From the angle I am at I can see the sun coming up and I know I should get some sleep, or coffee. Maybe I need a few days off, I know it isn't a maybe.<p>

I see her, on the other side of the room looking at me, saying nothing. I wonder if she'll always be with me, I wonder if it's normal for prodigies to end up in the madhouse. Somehow if I get to be with her I know I won't really care. She's not looking at me now, she's trying not to acknowledge me, and I know I should ignore her as well. Then perhaps over time she'll disappear.

Then it hits me all at once that I've been seeing her for months and each time she looks sad, her little mantra, her tattoo all come back to me. They run through my mind and I scream at this discovery. The sound is loud, it pierces the silent air, and some recess of my brain wonders if I've woken my neighbours. All the while I wonder if she ever knew the double meaning behind her tattoo. I look at her spiky hair, her red lips and small pixie body, I envision her laughter, her dancing, her mad drawings. My hands shake and I don't think I can do this, but my mind wonders, over and over. Is this love? She always looks so sad.

Perhaps, it's time I let her go.

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><p><strong>Ok this it my first atempt at a JasperAlice oneshot, about Jasper and the genius thing... Well I have a major obsession with Spencer Reid in Criminal Minds so that kind of explains it. I apologise for any grammar or spelling mistakes, please tell me what you think :).**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, Twilight belongs to Stephanie Meyer, I just like to distort the character :D.**


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